Bath time with Frida Kahlo

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I’ve been thumbing through, “The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait,” for the past week or so. It appeals to me that someone can use both writing and drawing at the same time, in the same place, to capture their inner world.

I knew very little about Frida. Just that she had a sweet unibrow. And I could recognize her famous self-portraits like a lot of people. A few months ago I bought a pair of bottle cap earrings with quarter-sized portraits of her painted onto them. I wore them around a music festival I attended with a friend. A lot of people were delighted at the sight of Frida dangling from my earlobes.

All but one of the drawings in this diary I’m reading never made it out. It was her space to make sense of things. I had to read the translated notes because I don’t understand Spanish, but I still found myself examining her multi-colored writing. She wrote in colored pencil and left scratch marks and scribbles, as one would do with a pen. It’s nice to know someone as regarded as she had visible second and third thoughts, could allow herself to stumble on paper.

It turns out she was quite the writer too. Here is one of my favorite letters, one of the many written to her beloved Diego:

Diego,
Truth is, so great, that I
wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep,
or listen, or love.
To feel myself trapped, with no fear
of blood, outside time and magic,
within your own fear,
and your great anguish, and
within the very beating of your heart.
All this madness, if I asked it of you,
I know, in your silence, there would be
only confusion.
I ask you for violence, in the nonsense,
and you, you give me grace, your light and
your warmth.
I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors,
because there are so many, in my
confusion, the tangible form
of my great love.

Frida suffered from a lot of physical ailments throughout her life. She beat polio in her childhood, and in her later years was in a near fatal accident that left her physically impaired for the rest of her life. She had close to 35 operations in her lifetime, and was unable to bear children. Much of her art depicts misplaced body parts, parts outside her body. And a spiritual and sexual longing to reproduce. It’s no wonder she painted so many self-portraits. Despite her immense pain, she found a way to steal her own joy and find love in her life.

Many consider her to be Mexican hero, who appealed to Mexican women and more broadly to the plights of women everywhere, but a lot of her critics thought her work was intensely self-directed and incapable of moving past self.

“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best,” the artist once said.

Essayist Sarah M Lowe wrote, “Her work was deemed so excessively personal and self-referential that it is thought incapable of expressing universal emotions or the human condition. In time, her self-portraits, though they never cease to shock, have overcome some of the prejudices against women painting their own lives.”

I started drawing women in bathtubs a few months ago. I’m not exactly sure of the reasoning behind the choice of vessel. I know that both baths and drawing calm me down when I’m feeling overwhelmed by the weight of things.

And baths are where some of my best ideas have come from.

In a college writing class I wrote a metafictional story about this woman who takes a bath and gets the idea to write the story of her life. There’s a talking shower head that is encouraging her to write and also shouting innuendos.

The woman rockets from the bath in a Eureka-like moment, water spilling all around her and plummeting to the carpet. She runs butt naked into her garage and wrenches out these old, dusty bins filled with her old journals.

She searches one of her journals frantically, dampening the pages with the water falling from her hair. She finds the passage that is supposed to help her define this moment of certainty. She realizes the passage is in fact not the missing piece she needs to solve her life story. She’s frustrated at her younger self for leaving such a poorly constructed record of her life. She scoffs and criticizes every line in that single passage then moves onto mocking some others. Finally, she flings the journal across the room.

Looking back at this piece, I realize it was about my idea process and the frustration I face in creation, particularly writing. When I have an idea, I feel that well-known mania, and I need to write. RIGHT NOW. URGENT HURRY. A lot of times I lose the feeling. Then I over complicate the idea. I rage about the hopelessness of memory. The idea vanishes as quickly as it comes.

Drawing these bathtubs was my way of coping with my issues with writing. I love these hours I spend shading, erasing, coloring. It’s obvious I don’t have formal training, but this doesn’t stop me from getting better and sharing my work. Putting my work out there has only made me feel braver.

For now, the bathtubs seem to be working. Drawing has helped me reunite with writing. I’d like the two to become friends. Like my girl Frida, I’d like a space where I can combine both worlds.

Linden

The sign says Greenspire Linden
It tells you the tree is hearty,
built to last in urban areas.

I’m as wild as a horse
in suburban ones.

We don’t belong here
in the middle
of impeccable lawns.

I crush the thought,
a mosquito that bit
through the protection
covering my arm.

I tell the thirsty
to please be quiet,
so I can surrender
to strength in silence.

 

 

 

 

 

Why I blog

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So it’s been well over four years since I started this blog, and I have a confession to make: I didn’t know where I was going with it, but I’d like to know going forward.

I wrote some poems, some stories, some rants, some day recaps, some reviews. Little of this and that. Not a whole lot of themes or intent, just doing.

I’m okay admitting this. I started this blog not really knowing a whole lot about blogging and just needing an outlet. Maybe I would write things that relate to other people. Maybe not.

I enjoy literary writing, which requires a good deal of time and thought. I’m proud of a lot of those pieces and wanted them to be shared outside my blog in a collection with other strong writing. I have sent a lot of my work to small lit presses. I waited months for a response. Sometimes, I didn’t want to wait and posted on my blog.

Writers and people before me who have a thing to say or two about writing have always said this: write for yourself first. And if anything else, I’m happy that I have been able to do this in my lifetime.

Reasons I write

  1. Emotional release
  2. To know more about myself and what I think, even if it’s hard to articulate
  3. The craft of writing. Because getting better at something I like is fun.
  4. To connect with other people
  5. To create a name for myself

Emotional release

Writing for emotional release and understanding is a well-known use of the trade. Emotions are complex, beautiful beasts and if you don’t spend getting time to know them and how you use them, life can get pretty hazy. Not saying writing is the only way to get intimate with your emotions, but it’s my way of doing so.

To know myself

I want to know what I think and why I think that. Being authentic, no matter how painful it is and what I learn about myself, has always been one of my life goals.

It’s so easy to get caught up in what other people think, especially when we’re connected to each other’s opinions and thoughts more than ever before. This blog was supposed to be a spot where my thoughts could free fall. I say “supposed to” because I think I went through a few big life phases during this blog, but was unable to fully capture this experience openly. Because I was afraid of what other people think about me.

Along the way I also learned about “boundaries” and have grown to appreciate my privacy. I allowed myself to go through these changes on the other side of this blog. I write very personal things, and sometimes I’m not always aware of how this information can open myself up in vulnerable ways that some people may try to take advantage of. People who are not actively trying to understand their emotions tend to do this, and are not always aware of or care about how their emotional responses affect other people.

That being said, I’d like to continue to write what I mean in the best way possible, regardless of how others use their emotions.

The craft

I’ve spent more time and energy on writing than I have on any other passion or skill in my life. Why stop now? I’m not a perfect writer, and I don’t intend to be, but I’m not done learning. Do you see the headings I’m using in this blog? I more recently learned why that’s important for a reading experience. Learning about writing and implementing what I learn is very rewarding to me.

Don’t get me wrong: writing is still pure agony. But then the agony is also plain fun. And maybe that’s sadistic, but there are worse things.

To connect with other people

Notice that “to connect with other people” is fourth. Especially for writers trying to figure out their groove and niches, writing for people before knowing what interests you is not something I and others who write recommend.

That being said, I care about my work being read. A few months ago a woman commented on my blog about combatting anxiety. I appreciated her comment and thought about it a lot.

To make a name for myself

I still struggle with this one just as a lot of writers and people who want to be known for something they put a lot of heart and time into something do. Because I care about the artistic experience, I don’t want to come out with quick, easy material that isn’t accomplishing my emotional and self-awareness needs in writing for the sake of being provocative and being known.

However, marketing myself and being confident about my talents needs to be on this list. I want people to know me, and I think it can be accomplished since I require a lot of honesty with myself.

What I dig

Since starting this blog, here is what I learned that I like to write:

  1. Poetry
  2. What I’m reading or watching
  3. Current events
  4. Travel logs
  5. Stories
  6. First hand accounts

I have always been overwhelmed by my amount of creative interests, which is why I tried not to limit the types of content on this experimental platform I created for myself. I even started putting my sketches on this site, which is another creative interest I tacked onto my interest load.

This has made planning and consistency for this blog highly problematic. The amount of times I overthought form and ended up with no blog at all is very frustrating to me. And looking at this blog as a whole entity is also very interesting and confusing to me.

Blogs you liked the most

Writers are nothing without their readers. And that’s where I’d like to improve this year. I renewed this blog because I’d like to be more consistent, open and aware of my audience.

Here are the blogs you viewed/liked the most:

What this list tells me is that people tend to click and engage with posts about my family, sex, life goals, best tips and relationships the most. This makes sense because they are the most articulate and often openly emotional.

Based off the stats I have on this blog, I also learned that 2015 was my best year. I posted only 15 blogs that year, but received the most amount of views. It would appear that in my case quality over quantity makes a big difference.

I’m sure I could spend a lot longer on analytics. I’m telling you about them because I want you to know that I care about what both you and I like and want to create more of it. In reorganizing this blog and strategizing from this point forward, I will be more consciousness of what content works and doesn’t.

In the end, this stuff does come from the crevices of my heart, so it means a great deal that you would choose to spend time on it. Life is short and your time is important. Thank you for reading!

Danny

I watched his thin body spiral to the ground. He lie convulsing in the grass, on the side of road I take every day to get home. The billboard over his head displays before and after shots of Brian Urlacher’s hair transplant.

I don’t know what made me turn around. It was just important for me to know if he was still breathing.

I pull over at the car wash across the street, close enough to see his limbs pulsing like they’re wired with electricity.

“Hey, do you need help?” I call to him from my open car window.

Slowly, he lifts himself up off the ground in a movement that reminds me of a marionette.

A smile sits sideways on his face.

“Do you want me to call you an ambulance?” I ask him.

He staggers toward me. Cars blur past us.

“Do you know where I am?” he asks me, tottering closer.

He’s wearing a neon orange vest with reflective patching. Dirt covers his forearms and throat. He appears to be a tradesperson of some sort.

“You’re on Martin Road. You fell. Pretty hard, it looked like,” I say.

A pair of bloated eyes fights to stay open. “I hate my life,” he says.

“I’m sorry to hear this,” I say hesitantly. My stomach grumbles, reminding me it’s dinnertime, and this isn’t a part of my daily schedule.

“Where were you going?” I ask him.

“No where,” he slurs. “I belong no where.”

“Well, do you need me to take you somewhere?”

I arrive at that never-ending place I sometimes I find myself in conversation. The jogging pace inside my chest picks up to a full run.

“Can you take me to my parents?”

I stare at a tattoo on his arm of a stuffed bear. The words underneath it read, “Amber Lee.”

“Where are your parents?”

“In Winston.”

“Winston’s 40 minutes away. How were you getting home?”

“A bus, I think,” he says, scratching his head.

“Were you working earlier today?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been drinking?” I ask, letting his sour scent fill my nostrils.

“A little bit. Since I got off work.”

I peer at the man’s pockets and size the rest of him up. “Do you have any weapons on you?”

“Wait, what?” he says. “God no.” He pats himself down. I watch his hands intently.

“If you try anything, I’m going to ask you to get out of my car okay?” I tell him.

I’m usually not this straightforward. But then again, I don’t usually pick up men off the side of the road. I can hear my mother and grandmother screaming at me as I help him into the passenger side of my car.

“Okay, I’ll be good, I swear,” he says, raising his arms over his head.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Danny.”

I help Danny’s tattooed fingers find his seatbelt and then fumble with my own.

I drank a cup of coffee on my patio this morning. A hummingbird fluttered from flower to flower of my hanging plant, the longest living outdoor plant I’ve ever had. I sat, transfixed on the branch the hummingbird landed on. I had never seen one at rest. It blended in with the branch. Then the large twig sprung to life and zoomed out of mine.

After a few minutes, Danny’s sobs puncture the silence. Traffic is bumper to bumper. I realize that this is going to be a long trip.

I don’t know if it’s true, but I tell him everything’s going to be okay.

“You don’t understand,” he wails. “I’ve ruined everything. I’m a terrible person, and I don’t deserve to live.”

His tears wash over the dirt and streak his cheeks.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, grasping for context.

“I got my kids taken away from me, again.”

Before I can process the full weight of these words, Danny changes the subject.

“How old are you?” he sniffles.

“28.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from Oakton Grove.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes…But I’m not sure why this is relevant.”

“Do you love him?”

“I… love him.”

“Are you sure? Do you really love him?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you hesitate?”

“Because I don’t know why me having a boyfriend is important.”

“Why did you pick me up?”

“Because you looked like you needed help.”

“You’re an angel. Are you here to save me?”

I clear my throat. It’s suddenly very dry. “I just want to make sure you get home,” I tell him.

“Do you want anything more than that?”

“No.” I make sure to look Danny directly in the eyes.

He turns and looks out the window. We inch down the road. “If you want me to go, just say so. You can pull over and I’ll walk the rest of the way home.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“No,” he says, sinking into the passenger seat. “I like talking to you.”

“Well, that’s good then.”

“You’re pretty,” he tells me.

“Again, I don’t get the relevancy.”

“You’re hilarious. Nothing I say gets through to you. You don’t give a shit. How old are you?”

“I told you already, I’m 28.”

“Oh. Where are you from?”

“Oakton Grove.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“We’ve been through this. Yes.”

“Someone sent you here today. You’re an angel sent to save me.”

“Why did your kids get taken away?”

Danny bites his lip and drums his fingers on the window. “Because I’m a bad dad.”

“What makes you a bad dad?”

It’s as if I accused him. He yells, “I love my fucking kids, okay?”

“Okay, I believe you,” I tell him. “Please don’t yell at me.”

“I’m sorry, angel. Will you take me away from here?”

“I’m taking you to your parents.”

“My parents can’t stand to see me like this.”

“Are you like this a lot?”

Danny nods and begins to sob again. He rocks in his seat. I see a five year old boy, lost and without his mother. I want to him pick up and hold him. This feeling fades into repulsion, as I watch a trail of snot run from his nose.

“Have you ever considered getting help?”

“A bunch of times. They spit me out, and I get right back to it.”

“You can change. You can get your kids back,” I tell him. I feel a swift sermon overcome me. “I know a dad who once lost his kids. He turned his whole life around and got them back.”

It’s the truth, but I don’t want to tell him how close this truth is to home.

“How old are you?”

“What?”

“Where are you from?”

“Danny…”

“Please tell me you don’t have a boyfriend.”

This circle of this conversation begins to wear on me. I continue to drive down the same road I’ve driven down for the last 10 years. It makes me feel old to have conversations that lead nowhere on roads I’ve travelled my whole life.

“When you drop me off at my parents, I’m going to run back the other way. The way we came.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because they can’t see me like this.”

“Then why are we going there?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do.”

“What if I talked to your parents with you? What if we tell them what’s going on? And that you need some help getting treatment for your drinking?”

“How old are you, angel?”

When we arrive at the address Danny gave me, he sighs. He points to the house. “Look at those dumb Christmas lights. It’s July,” he laughs. “See, my parents are goofy. They don’t know anything. They never knew what to do with me. I’m just some dumb white boy. I’m a nobody.”

“That’s not true. You’re a dad. You’re somebody to someone.”

“Danny!” someone calls. Danny and I face the sound. There’s a skeletal woman with long, straight hair and dollish eyes standing in the street in front of my car.

“Danny, I was worried sick about you. Where the hell is your phone?”

“Dead,” he tells her, not moving from my car.

“Who are you?” she asks me.

“I’m no one. I found Danny here on the side of the road and just wanted to make sure he got home okay.”

“He’s fucked up, isn’t he?” Then she asks him. “You’re fucked up, aren’t you?”

Danny slips out of my car, slamming the door.

“You seem like a really nice person. Thank you.” The woman’s eyes hold mine for several seconds. I will myself to read her mind, decipher the pain that swims in her two pools of eyes.

I drive away and settle into defeat. My mission was to get Danny home, but I felt like I failed on a fundamental level. I have found myself here before. I know what it’s like to care about someone who talks in circles. And what happens when the patience dwindles. When hope runs dry.

My eyes catch a piece of blue fabric in the rearview mirror. It’s a utility bag of some sort. There’s a flashlight jutting out a side pocket. I don’t recognize any of these contents.

When I pull back into Danny’s parents’ driveway, I catch a glance of him and the skeletal woman embracing each other. He strokes the middle of her back, as she cradles him close. I wonder how long they’ve been falling apart and piecing themselves together.

I clear my throat and offer up Danny his work bag. “Thank you, angel,” he tells me.

For the next few weeks, I see Danny and his kids everywhere. There’s a daughter dancing on her father’s toes at a party. A father pushing his son on a swing. A father who tells his kids to wait for him at the end of the sidewalk.

I make up stories about them. There’s one where a dad hits rock bottom. He loses his kids for five years. The state says that he will never see them again unless he gets clean. When he reunites with them, he tells them he loves them, and the words are pure, unstained. And in that moment, everyone believes in the magic of being together again.

Monarch

36794354_10217377976506330_22360463031402496_n.jpgA tug on the leash,
my dog veers left
back in line,
back in tune
with pop rocks
underneath her paws.

Insects swarm, gossip
about warm blood.
Eggs on leaves
ready to hatch
and talk the talk.

Have you heard
the blackbird
song? It’s a
distraction
from the way
things are
and were.

The other day,
I saw a message
of fear nailed
to a tall tree.

It said remember,
remember all the
terror, and the fall
of man is near.

Monarchs are
everywhere
this time of year.
Made of poison,
with colors
meant to scare.

How can such
fragile wings bear
heavy warnings?

 

My favorite spot is your favorite spot

35267152_10217184344425649_608698351625437184_nThe mountains are calling, and I must go. Cool, but when I can’t make it to the mountains, I’ll happily settle for my favorite nature spot, which is ten measly minutes away from my house.

It’s a grove that’s tucked behind a woodsy, unincorporated community. It features a dusty, gravel trail wrapped around a man-made pond people enjoy fishing in. There’s a grassy knoll I sometimes force myself to scale. I call it Three Trees Hill even though there’s way more than three trees that greet you at the top of it. I’m super lazy with titles.

I like this spot because there’s no more than four to five people there at a time. And everyone winks at each other like we’re all in on some big secret about being there.

Today I sported my new favorite shirt (this blog has a few of my favorite things). I bought this shirt from a street cart in Boston. It’s royal blue with white lettering. It says: WICKED SMAHT.

I know, how touristy.

But there’s brilliance in running in a shirt like this if you’re particularly self-conscious about your body. People will judge your form the second it appears in their plain view. Because that’s what we do. We’re trained from the womb to assess each other’s sacks of flesh and bone. How much control we have over it and how much work we put into it.

Here’s the fun part: when people assess my body and assign a term to it while I’m wearing this shirt, they’re distracted by the terminology I’ve thrown out at them without any introduction, without vocality.

WICKED SMAHT.

I catch three walkers and a cyclist scanning the words with their eyes. They seem to accept my projection, offering me sly smirks in return as I run toward them, breathing in heavy, inconsistent breaths.

After I get over myself and my total win of a shirt, I focus on the residue of the day. Today was a good one but a hard one. At work, I received the most amount of feedback I’ve received in a while. I felt the full weight of it still sitting on my shoulders and wrapped around my neck like an itchy scarf.

I just started a new job, and I’m relearning the way I’ve been doing things for the past four years. My new job calls for me to be free-falling, fun, inventive. It’s what I wanted, but in starting off, I realize I’m unsure what to do with all the white space that clashes with the constraints of time.

I’m a writer. I can make magic when I put my mind to it, when my mind isn’t trying to unravel me and wear me down. I’m one of those fortunate souls who has known what I’m good at and what I like to do. But when I’m writing about a brand new topic I’m unfamiliar with, I can feel myself scraping around in the dark for information. When words leave my fingers they feel clownish, contrived. I don’t want my reader to think I don’t give a fuck.

Because dear reader, I give a fuck.

So here I am running and thinking about writing and readers, and this deer pops its head out of a patch of pussy willows, or what I’m calling pussy willows because it’s fun to say. The deer flicks its ears and pretends not to exist. My stomach backflips at the sight of this doe-eyed discovery. 35329201_10217184348265745_1398846757835636736_nThis is the part where I try to concentrate real hard on the stress I’m clenching in my body’s tightest sections. This is the part where I give myself away to the deer. My favorite spot is your favorite spot. You can see deer anywhere if you look closely.

And if you look deep enough into the eyes of a red-winged blackbird you’ll find murder. Because they’re crazy this time of year. Trust me on this one. You’re probably interrupting their bone session if you’re anywhere near them right now. In flight, they look as burly as football players, with fiery red shoulder pads. Don’t mess with these bad to the bone birds.

I run. The wetness on my back is soothing, reassuring. Maybe I can outrun the mosquitos’ thirst. Maybe I’ll see my work the way I see the flutter of wings, rotted bark, or insect eggs on leaves. I’m waiting to catch my breath, and then it floods my lungs. I’m a blur, whirling through curls of green.

I have to stop running at some point. There’s a cotton candy pink sunset sitting on the horizon like the ultimate dessert of the day. I thank it, think of it as a reward for working my problems out here. The water and sky accept my honesty. They pat me on the back with their long, wisps of arms.35296111_10217184344225644_7128660158099488768_n (2)The four other trailblazers and I stand still as deer in our respective places along the trail, wordlessly uttering our silences. Together, we eat the sunset.

Nesting

A barren nest sits
in the tree
outside my window.
It’s a vacant hole
I fill with a baby owl
we once saw in daylight.
Its mouth opens
and closes, hungry
for whatever meal
its mother has to offer.
I fill it with fettuccine
I make when you’re gone,
when I’m missing you,
the opposite of you,
and everyone else
combined into one
larger than life you.
I fill it with water
spilling over the brim.
I fill it with pages
I wish would fill
themselves,
explain themselves
to the noiseless days,
when silence balloons
in my ears and chest.
I’d fill it with buds
but it seems
they’ve blossomed
into paper flowers
overnight.

-3°

A warm winter
fades into cold
that steals the breath
of my breaks.
I fear the front end
of my life for a second
as I pump the pads
with the foot I wish
was in my mouth
where the words spill.
My close call is the sound
of something fragile falling
a flight of many years.
A muffling in my ears,
the whispered sayings,
are reserved for underwater
staredowns with you
when we test the weight
of each other’s silences.
A whiplash of wind
against my cheek
outside your city
apartment. The frozen
water bottles on the floor
of your car about to explode.
When you drink, I watch
the seams of your throat.
It’s so cold, and I love you.

This womb

The woman curled
up in a bath
remembers a woman
in bed
in a white room
of her own undoing;
a body tight as a fist;
a mind unraveling
like a scroll.

Maybe smallness
is our way
of making our way
back to our space.

The ultimate cradle.

My hands droop
in the water
like flowers
with bent necks.

“Choose the life
laid out in front
of you. Feel its
aliveness. Its
calm vibrations,”
calls the woman
in my bathroom.

I want to believe
that my body
is a field of
green energy
but my eyes,
catch a glimpse
of white room,
porcelain tub,
walls made of
chalky plaster.

My chest falls
as she asks me
to concentrate
on sincerity,
on what is
important to me.

I reach for
my yours truly,
my serious
what is love face.

Should I reach
for what’s to come?

My body floats,
and the room hums.
The heater turns
on and off
like raspy
breathing,
but breathing
in and out
nonetheless.

This womb
is filled with
warm water
returning me home.

A Meeting with Bob from Beyond

fishing-lily-pads-862x451

This part about life is true-ish: you can spend your day, or at least some of it, being focused, doing what makes you happy, or spend your day thinking about never having it or obsessing about losing it.

I’m walking down a nature trail. I’m talking to myself. As people pass me by, I hush up because I am too much of a puss to let them know I’m talking to myself.

I have today day off of work. I feel bad about days off, but I really enjoy them, like a lot of people. I try to have plans on those days, which doesn’t always work out. I want to use them to their fullest.

Please be patient with yourself. You smoked a little bit. You forget that you get a little paranoid when you smoke alone. And maybe that’s why you’re talking to yourself at all, so that it feels like you’re with someone.

 I think that you came here for a reason. You want to explore what is going on inside you without anyone else around you. I think this is a healthy thing to do. Recently, you’ve been overly connected to social media, and you’ve been feeling hyper and stimulated. Even when you were in Costa Rica, you were still checking your phone. You’re never free of technology.

Social media sometimes feels like a box, like a way to keep people inside. There are people who take advantage of social media for the right reasons. They want to share with others, give to others. They want people to come along with them for the journey. Follow them through this jungle, on this mountain, through those moments when they marvel on the face of their first child.

Voyeurism has consequences. What about the other chunk of people who are standing still? Just watching someone live their life? The viewer doesn’t even have to dream it up. It can happen right before their eyes. They continue to watch and watch and watch. We have become a new form of TV, this relentless watching of each other.

Today you’re distraught. You lost your journal. It’s this purple, silky thing that you got from Barnes and Noble about a year and a half ago. Let’s be honest; most the thoughts in there weren’t worth sharing with others, but they were worth mentioning to yourself in the moments that you wrote them down. You write in it for your future self. So that you can immerse yourself into what it felt like to be a younger version of you.

I am 27 years old. I miss my journal because it was for me. No entertaining. I could see myself thinking and rethinking in it. Messy. Not the best words I could come up with. Organic. Diary entries. Pieces of poems. I wrote one on Mother’s Day about my mother and how she says the word “fuck” better than anyone I know. She gives it grace.

I wrote about going down to southern Illinois with my dad to watch my sister graduate. I don’t think I finished that entry. I was waiting for it to settle on me, and then I lost it.

A bearded man and his dog just passed me, so I had to stop talking just now. I recently wrote a short story about this man who talked to himself in his garage at night, seething about the government. The only thing that calms the voices in his head is fishing.

I come from an entire family of talkers, and lo and behold, I’m a talker. But I’m also a good listener. Some people don’t need another person on the other side, and this terrifies me. I know someone who doesn’t need another person to listen. I can leave my phone on the counter and walk away for 10 minutes, and they wouldn’t know the difference. No interjections or counterpoints necessary.

Being around non-talkers used to be a big issue for me. Spending time with my boyfriend’s family, for example, made me feel uncomfortable, exposed. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I filled up the silence. Open mouth, open floodgates. I mean, sure they said things, but everything was so matter of fact. Not at all like therapy. Like live wires. Everyone wearing their emotions out all together at once.

I have to pee, but I’m kind of nervous. I’ve had some bad experiences with peeing in public lately. When I was in Costa Rica, I really had to go. I was at a resort, and I found this sort of remote-ish place by the beach, which obviously wasn’t remote enough. A hotel employee had caught me hunched over a pile of sand. He started yelling at me in Spanish, and I was already going, so I kept going. I was drunk, but horrified that he kept yelling at me, not even turning around and waiting for me to finish.

I pee quietly behind some bushes. A mosquito bites my ass.

Now, I’m looking over a pond covered in lily pads that bounce light to each other as the water moves underneath them. There are hundreds of dragonflies flitting in between them, dipping their butts into the water.

The fisher in my short story, the one with the voices in his head—he’s addicted to painkillers and alcohol. His kids keep finding him passed out in the bathroom. His body fails him. He was the funny one, the one who made you feel sane. Everyone’s favorite uncle. His kids and their cousins used to dog-pile on top of him every Christmas. Now he can’t even remember his kids’ names.

The intro of the story starts with a text message. A wrong number. From some guy named Bob who wants to go all-night fishing. The narrator is lonely, so she messages him back for the sake of conversation. She evens sends a fish emoji. The conversation ends once the mysterious texter figures out they are texting the wrong person.

I watch dragonflies clash into each other. It sounds like the crinkling of candy wrappers. A pier moves underneath my feet. An elderly couple shuffles next to me and onto a bench that’s bolted to the pier. They look out across the water, past the lily pads. The man is wearing a baseball cap with the word “veteran” on it.

“Do you see the lotus flowers?” he asks me. I look toward where his wrinkled index finger points. Fleshy pink petals poke out from the water.

“Yes, they’re beautiful,” I say. Suddenly, I feel like a tourist.

“Where are you from?” the stout woman asks, peeking out from the side of the man.

“Northwest ‘burbs,” I say.

“Terrible drivers over there,” she says with a half frown.

“That’s why I’m here. To slow down,” I laugh.

“This used to be a lively place,” the man tells me. “Every summer, people would rent out boats, and there would be concessions. Tons of people. Now it’s a ghost town.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“The state didn’t want to pay for it anymore,” he says and nods.

He points again. “Look at that barn swallow,” he says.

I watch a brown body pierce the air like an arrow. Then it dips and dives, making sharp, acrobatic turns.

Since fishing is on my brain, I tell the man that I tried fishing recently, and I still have yet to catch my first fish.

“Oh, have you been up by McHenry? Plenty of good fishing spots over there,” he says.

“I will be sure to check that out. I’m gonna get lucky next time, I can feel it,” I say.

“You will catch one, Sweetie,” the woman tells me.

I thank them. Their encouragement pulses inside my chest, and I am aware of the sun’s warmth on my face.

“It was so nice meeting you. I’m Sarah,” I thrust my hand out formally. I’m not sure why, but then I realize I want to touch their hands.

“I’m Sandy. And this is Bob,” the woman says. Bob smiles.